


Trust Fall

by danwriteskink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Leather, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 12:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: After years of being responsible for his own survival, John finds it difficult to ask for help from anyone, even Harold.





	Trust Fall

**Author's Note:**

> For Season of Kink 2017, prompt: emotion play

"All I want you to do, John, is close your eyes." Harold's voice is very calm in John's ear, but it doesn't help with the sweating panic he feels. John is kneeling on the roof of a skyscraper, lost between a forest of antennae and satellite dishes. The gravel is sharp and painful beneath his knees, and the traffic is a distant burr punctuated with horns. They're not working a number; this is part of Harold's side project, the thing he calls building trust.

It should be easy to obey Harold and close his eyes, but John can't stop his skin prickling, can't let his defences down long enough to let his eyelids fall. 

"I know it's difficult for you to let go," says Harold. "I promise, I can see all access points. I will keep you quite safe. All you need to do is close your eyes." 

John knows nobody can see him. Harold has chosen the best possibly place in the city for him to do this: this is the tallest building on the block, the area is unlit and the gravel is impossible to move silently over. Even if someone did approach, even without Harold's help, John would know and yet he can't do what Harold asks, he can't close his eyes. He shifts on the gravel and the sharp pain through the wool of the suit is a relief, despite the damage it's probably doing. 

"Harold," he starts to say, but Harold cuts him off. 

"Listen to my voice," says Harold. "Don't speak. Just listen. When you're out there saving lives and putting yourself in danger, you're asking me to place trust in your abilities. And I do, John. I trust you absolutely to do everything within your power to keep someone alive." 

John is suddenly aware of the cold, kneeling still in the breeze at the top of this building. His skin is pimpled up and he has an irrational desire to run. 

"Close your eyes, John," Harold says, with authority in his voice that John can't ignore. "Close your eyes and listen." 

John didn't realise he had obeyed, until Harold's voice comes again over the earpiece, making him jump. He has closed his eyes, and all he can feel is the wind against his skin. His hands are shaking, he thinks. 

"You are remarkable," Harold continues, remorselessly. "You do more than any person could be expected, you constantly put your life at risk for strangers. And I will not squander those remarkable abilities, that remarkable heart. You will do anything within your power but I can give you more: intelligence, back-up, safety, resources. None of it means anything if you don't trust me as I trust you. And as we work together on these exercises, we will build this trust which will keep you alive. So that we can help more people. And because I will not lose you." 

John can't help open his eyes just for a moment, despite what Harold has said, just to check that the space around him is actually empty, and still dark. It is, except for the blinking red eye of a camera tucked into a pylon in front of him. The brightness of the LED stings and makes his eyes water. 

Harold makes a soft chiding noise, and John's skin prickles in response. "Come home, Mr Reese. I think we're going to have to work on trust issues again," Harold says, softly. John sighs and slips into the service stairwell, leaves the building behind. 

Back in the library, the recognisable black triangle of the armbinder hangs on the back of a chair, and on top of it, a leather hood with buckles. Sweating lightly in the overheated room, John tries not to look that way, but he can't keep the black leather out of his field of vision. He knows Harold is watching him, measuring his response to the thing, even if he hasn't glanced up from his screen yet. 

"I comprehend that this is difficult for you," says Harold, eyes still down at the keyboard. "I know you've had to be your own protection for a long time." 

John just stands there, ashamed and disappointed in himself. Harold has given him so much, and John can't even find a way to trust him. 

Harold finally stands, puts his hands on John's wrists and holds them gently. "You do understand why I need you to trust me?" 

"Yes," John says, hoarse. "So we can help people." 

"Well, fundamentally, yes," says Harold. His fingers stroke the inside of John's wrists, where the skin is soft and pale. "But at the heart of it, the reason I need you to trust me is so I can keep you safe." 

John nods. He doesn't have anything to say, nothing that wouldn't just be a spill of thanks, for giving John a chance to pay for the things he's done, for loving and trusting John enough to want him to feel safe, and for never being ashamed of him. 

"Would you like to wear the armbinder?" says Harold. "It's familiar. Before we move on to other things."

John weaves his fingers through Harold's and nods again. It's a relief, knowing that soon he will be giving up control. Even if it needs to be taken from him forcibly, Harold is willing to do that for him. 

Harold's smile is gentle, kind. "Then you may bring it to me," he says. "And no more words, if you would be so kind." 

When John silently slides his shirt off his shoulders, he realises why the library felt so warm: it's pleasant on his naked skin. Harold plans for everything: a warm room, a water bottle. There's even a foam square cut neatly from a yoga mat, right in the middle of the room. John drapes his shirt on the back of a chair, checks the safety on his gun and puts it on a shelf. Stepping away from the gun is the first, difficult step in this process. He won't be able to reach it quickly, if anything goes wrong. He tells himself that the library is secure, and he turns back to the centre of the room. 

"When you're ready," Harold says, indicating the pale blue square with one hand. The other holds the leather triangle of the armbinder. The straps gleam gently in the incandescent light of the library. Harold takes very good care of his gear. 

John kneels on the mat, knees comfortably apart. This is a place of safety, this is somewhere Harold loves, this is the place where he can get as close as he's ever been to letting down his defences. When Harold steps closer, John leans against his thighs, feeling wool against his cheek, breathing in leather conditioner and the faint trace of an expensive cologne. 

"Clasp your hands, please," says Harold. 

John rolls his shoulders a couple of times, then folds one hand against the other behind his back. They rest just at the top of his buttocks. Harold runs his hands down the length of John's arms, a possessive, soothing gesture, and John sighs, relaxes his neck, and brings his shoulder blades closer. The posture makes him arch a little, chest out, head tilted upwards. 

"Beautiful," Harold says, softly. "You are so beautiful." He slides the armbinder into position, smoothing the leather against John's skin and folding it across his arms. It zips from the fingertips, and John feels his muscles start to stretch as his elbows are brought closer together. They won't touch, though, not until Harold tightens the straps. There's three: one at the wrists, one below the elbow, and the broadest one across the biceps. 

John is broad across the shoulders, but training means he keeps flexible and strong, so, when Harold pulls the strap across his biceps taut, his elbows finally brush each other within the leather sleeve. He's starting to sweat again, with the intensity of the position and the tension of his muscles, and also with the vast awareness of the vulnerability of his chest. Harold could do anything: shoot him, lay him open with a knife, or take his fountain pen, the nib sharp, the ink cool, as he writes his name on John's skin. 

That last one makes John take a deep, shuddering breath, thinking of Harold's expression as he makes certain that everyone knows to whom John belongs. It doesn't help that Harold has finished tensioning the armbinder now, and, in response to John's staggering gasp, puts a hand on John's chest to steady and reassure him. John almost comes on the spot, his cock thrusting forward against his pants. 

"My goodness, you're eager," says Harold. "I haven't decided yet if that's to be our endgame." He rests his hand on John's shoulder, on the curve of the deltoid, quivering under the strain of the armbinder. John exhales sharply, a groan and a plea, and Harold closes his fingers tight. "Still and quiet, please, John. I won't make you wait forever. Though it is tempting, when you endure so well." 

Harold walks in front of John; the air moving against John's bare skin reminds him again of his vulnerability. "This is an exercise in trust. We mustn't lose sight of that." He pulls a low, wheeled stool up close to John and sits, then folds the leather hood across his knee. John watches Harold's hands and Harold catches him staring, at the hood, at the strong silver buckles, at the smooth, featureless face of it. 

"Later," he says. "Let's stick to the familiar for now." 

John shivers, though the air is still warm. He imagines Harold sliding the hood over his face, enclosing him in darkness and silence. Imagines the laces pulling tight against his scalp, and the soft click of the buckles sealing him inside. It's strange to want and fear something at the same time; it's not like he's never been blindfolded, never had someone throw a black bag over his head. Or a plastic bag, for that matter. This is different, though, because he has walked willingly into the situation. 

None of that matters now because Harold is sliding his hands over John's chest, with spread fingers and palms against the skin. He draws in a breath, and relaxes into the touch. 

"I'd like you to consider that you cannot stop me touching you," says Harold. 

John gives him a look, and Harold raises his eyebrows. "Very well: without significant effort, and possibly dislocated joints, you cannot stop me from touching you." His hands slide beside John's nipples, down his ribcage, and John huffs out a breath of – of what? Pleasure? Dread? Harold is right – he can't stop what's happening, not without a great deal of effort and annoying pain. It's a troubling concept to process, when maintaining control has been the difference between life and death for so long. Now, restrained and safe in the library, John can begin to let go of that control. He doesn't know what will happen next, but Harold will take care of him. That much, at least, he understands. 

Harold's hands rest above John's waist. He's unbuckling the fine leather belt, slipping it out of the loops, running his fingers along the waistband of John's pants. John's breath catches. They haven't done this yet, not while John was tied, anyway. Fucking, sure: they've done that plenty. Fucking with leather? That's a whole new concept. John is suddenly really into that idea. 

It doesn't go any further than the waistband, though, at least this time. Harold trails his fingers up along John's midline. His fingertips are cool – cooler than John's flushed skin, anyway. John can see Harold's movements, can see the fascinated expression on his face as he traces patterns on John's chest, studiously avoiding the nipples. It's odd and confusing to not be able to move his arms, to catch Harold's hands and make them do something other than tease. He shifts the angle of his body a little, trying to get Harold's fingers to brush against his nipples. 

Harold laughs softly, and moves his hand away. "You'd like that, then?" he says. 

John all but snarls a response, arching his back further, pushing his chest forward towards Harold. 

Harold unfolds the leather hood. He holds it up, so that it's face to face with John. "Would you like it this much? In the dark and restrained?" 

John swallows and hesitates. "Can I talk?" 

"Of course," said Harold. "Let's discuss it." He sits up straight and pushes his glasses further up his nose. It's as if they were in a professional consultation, not sitting face to face in an abandoned library, while John's arms were tied. 

"Is this because I couldn't do what you wanted, before?" John asks. 

"A punishment?" says Harold. "No, of course not. I'm sorry that I asked too much of you too early. I think that perhaps a different path towards that goal might be easier to achieve.” His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach for John but won’t allow himself until this negotiation has been completed. John understands; he would like to lean his head into Harold’s palm, feel the safety and faith that is kept there only for him. 

“I think,” he says, then stops, unsure of what he wants to say. Harold looks at him over the top of his glasses, and John swallows, tries to find the words. 

“Sometimes I think it shouldn’t be an easy path,” he says, finally, his voice hoarse. 

Harold stands, fetches a bottle of water and unscrews it, his face thoughtful. He holds the bottle for John to drink from, and then caps it, puts it down beside the chair where he can reach it easily. “I can understand why that would be something you believe you deserve, John. It’s my belief that it’s much more difficult for you to accept things given easily. And this is something I will give you, freely, easily and forever: my love, my trust and my respect.”

John can feel a sob choking its way up his throat, and he closes his eyes, wills it to go away. Apparently the negotiation is over now, because Harold’s hand is in his hair, cupping his face, running a thumb over his lips. John opens his mouth, is rewarded with a brief slide of Harold’s fingers over his teeth, his tongue. 

“Now,” says Harold. “Where were we?” His fingers splay out over John’s throat, where even he could do so much damage before John has a chance to escape from the armbinder and stop him. His fingertips are gentle, though, and John arches back on his knees, throws back his head, opens himself even more to Harold’s touch. 

“Excellent,” Harold says, and moves his hand lower, spreads his finger across John’s chest. John waits, arched and ready, and this time he feels Harold take one nipple between two fingers, and roll it. His fingers are cool and his grip is firm, right on the edge of pain, and John feels his cock jump in response. He’s arching harder now, his fingers in the binder brushing his calves as he pushes forward into Harold’s hands. 

“You are beautiful on your knees, John.” Harold’s voice is reverent, even while he’s doing filthy things to John’s nipples, tweaking and pulling, twisting a little, drawing away for a moment so that John gasps and reaches for more. He’s so hard it hurts, and at the moment he’d do anything to have Harold put a hand on his cock, stroke him with those cool, clever hands. Anything is a dangerous concept for someone with John’s training, but he’s desperate and wanting, thrusting his hips up until his knees are almost off the floor. He realises, in the middle of his abandon, that the point Harold is making is that he would never ask for anything that would harm John, would never lead him into danger for frivolous reasons. He cries out then, hoarse again, desperately. 

“Harold, please! I want it, I want to wear it!” 

Harold’s hands withdraw immediately, and John’s eyes fly open, worried that he’s read the moment wrong, asked for something he shouldn’t have. Harold’s face tells another story, though, with an expression of such tenderness that John wants to cry, with relief or happiness, he’s not sure. 

“Of course, John. You are so good, so brave, of course you may wear it.” He reaches for the leather hood, puts one hand inside it while he loosens the laces with the other. John’s breath is coming faster now; he doesn’t know what it will be like when Harold slips the leather over his head, closes it around his throat, begins to lace it tight around him. 

Harold moves the chair so that he's sitting behind John now, with John's bound arms between his thighs. "It will take a moment for me to lace it tight," he say, his hands resting softly on John's shoulders, thumbs stroking his neck. "Remember, you'll be unable to see, unable to move your arms, but you are safe here. I can keep you safe here." 

The word repetition in Harold's calm voice lulls John into a similar state, and he tips his head back. Harold kisses the crown of his head, and then slides the hood on. The leather is so soft, it feels like fabric when it brushes his face, the inner surface silky and well-tended. Then it covers his eyes, and John can't help it; he lets out a gasp as he loses his sight. 

Harold pauses, rubs John's shoulder. "Are you all right? Do you want to continue?" 

"Yes." John is breathing leather conditioner and the soap from Harold's hands, and his head is starting to swim with it. "I'm just…" It's hard to find the words, and it would be so much easier if Harold didn't keep checking on him, expecting him to communicate clearly, but Harold is mercilessly patient. He won't act again until John has expressed himself. John thinks, suddenly, that this is part of the attraction for Harold, forcing John to expose himself in more than one way. It's so difficult to be vulnerable, even for Harold, but John tries anyway. 

"I like it, I feel safe, I just think I'm spinning out a bit," he says. "I want to feel it close around me. I want… I want to be lost in it?" It turns into a question at the end, because John doesn't have the language for what he's feeling, for how he's starting to float free from his body, from responsibilities and guilt and all the baggage of his past.

"Very well," says Harold. He smooths the hood over John's face. It leaves his mouth free, and Harold's hands brush John's lips, finds them open. He traces John's mouth, makes a gratifyingly hungry sound himself that makes John arch backwards again, so that he's nestled between Harold's legs, his head resting on Harold's chest. 

Harold laughs softly, and pushes him upright, kisses his head through the leather, and begins to lace it tight. It's rhythmic, the snap and tug of the laces as Harold works his way down the line of eyelets. Harold's fingers are nimble, pulling the laces tight as quickly and neatly as a chambermaid laces a woman into a corset. Then there are the buckles being tightened and finally leather grips John's skin. The fact that he can't see – he can't see! – is making him take heaving breaths. He briefly remembers a time when he had woken up to being water-boarded, mentally substitutes Harold's hand for the water pouring over his mouth, and groans, thrusting forward into nothing. His pants are starting to feel cold and damp over his cock now, he's been dripping for what feels like hours. 

Harold ties the laces neatly and John, with CIA training behind him, can't help but recognise the knot: a quick release slipknot. Then Harold slides his hands over John's shoulders and down to his nipples, which have barely recovered from Harold's last assault on them. They're tender and engorged even before Harold touches them, and now, with Harold fingers sure and cool against them, everything is magnified. John's mouth is open, he's panting and whimpering and moaning, trapped between Harold's legs, unable to move or see what is happening, only able to react to sensation. He feels helpless, but in a good way, a safe way, like a kept animal that is treasured and has every need tended to. 

Harold has obviously worked out that John likes his mouth covered, because he keeps a hand there, palm pressed to John's open lips, while he works John's nipples. Once, his hand skims gloriously over John's crotch, and John feels himself making a sound of animal need: a snarling groan that catches in his throat. Harold's hand closes tighter over his mouth, briefly making a seal – the command to accept this is implicit, since John could easily shake himself free – and he strokes John's cock with the palm of his other hand with quick firm movements that maximise the friction of cloth against skin. 

"Oh, John," he says, and from the hoarseness in his voice, he's turned on as much as John is. He locks his hand over John's mouth again. "You like this, don't you? You want me to control every part of you, even this." He lets John take a sip of air and closes the seal again, stroking hard through the wool of John's pants. John bucks under his grip, not enough to dislodge his hand, not enough that Harold could be hurt, but he's so close to coming now that he has to let Harold know. 

“Hush, hush, I know,” Harold says, but not chiding, rather in a soothing tone, with his hands on John’s shoulders while John heaves for breath and control of himself. When he’s calm enough that he won’t be coming in his pants like a teenager, he tilts his head into Harold’s palm again, feels the press of Harold’s nimble fingers through the thin leather hood. 

“Can you turn around?” Harold asks, and John is spinning on his knees, facing Harold before he’s finished speaking. John knows what happens next; this is something they’ve done before, though John wasn’t wearing leather last time he sucked Harold’s cock. 

He licks his lips and gets ready to give Harold the benefit of every seedy encounter he’s had in the CIA, whether by following orders or by desperate necessity mid-mission. This is different, though, because that edge of awareness that has kept him alive through all of that is muted by the hood, by his inability to use his arms. Right now, on his knees in the middle of a dusty library, John is just a mouth; Harold could simply wrap his hands around John’s head and use him to get off. The idea makes him shudder, with desire or dread, he’s not sure. Maybe both. 

“Tell me,” says Harold. “You need something, and I want you to tell me.” He’s sitting right in front of John, legs still open, and John can hear the soft fabric sound of him undoing his fly, button by button. He already knows what John wants.

John hates that Harold asks him – why won’t he just take what he wants? He’s the genius, surely he can see that John wants to be his, completely? You don’t ask your property if it would like to be used. 

“This is the point of the exercise, John.” Harold’s shoes move on the floor, he’s closed his legs again. “I can’t keep you safe if you don’t give me intel. In the field or on your knees, I will have your trust, and you _will_ tell me what you need.” 

“I want – I need…” It’s difficult to make his mouth shape words, but John knows that after this evening’s failure, Harold will make him kneel all night until he gives up the information Harold is seeking. John could do kneel all night – he’s physically strong enough, he’s been put through worse than this stressful position – but the realisation that he doesn’t have to is breaking over him like a wave. He doesn’t have to hold back, he doesn’t have to hide anything from Harold. Harold will give him anything. 

“Breathe, John,” says Harold. “I am here.” His hand cups the back of John’s head gently. 

“Please,” says John. “Take what you need. Please. Don’t be gentle.” 

John hears a sound – a sigh? A happy sigh? – and Harold's fingers slide over John's cheekbone, firm through the thin leather. Harold stands, finally, and John lets his teeth worry at his own lip for a moment, then he opens his mouth as wide as is comfortable, tongue pressed flat, making a welcoming place for Harold's cock. 

Harold isn't gentle, but he is accurate: his cock slides easily into John's open mouth. When it nudges the back of his throat, John instinctively pulls away and finds Harold's hand still cupping the back of his head, pushing him forward, forcing him to accept the intrusion. Back and forth Harold goes into John's mouth, and soon John is floating, uncaring about the saliva pouring over his chin, the ugly sounds of a throat fuck, the fact that his arms in the binder are starting to cramp. All that matters in this moment is Harold's pleasure; that's why John has placed himself in Harold's hands, made himself as vulnerable as he is able and then let Harold take him further. 

Harold's rhythm hiccups, and John gets ready. He knows Harold's patterns by now, and when he hears a choked gasp, feels the hand clench into the leather laces at the back of his head, he gets ready to swallow and keep swallowing. Harold comes with a thrust, both his hands holding John's head close, so that he can feel the warmth of Harold's belly through the leather. It's so good, to be held, to be useful, to give Harold pleasure. The leather is soaking up sweat and tears and probably semen that has leaked from the corners of his mouth, but John doesn't care. He'll do whatever Harold asks of him: clean his gear, close his eyes when he's told, even in public, even in the middle of Times Square, if only Harold never stops needing him. 

After, the squeak of the rolling chair tells John that Harold is moving around him, but he keeps kneeling, his head hanging low, his mouth open and dripping. Harold will take care of him, as he cares for all his tools. Indeed, he is carefully unbuckling the binder and sliding it away. Harold's hands are strong as they rub briskly up and down John's arms to encourage the circulation, though at no time did John lose feeling. Then the laces of the hood go, and the leather slips off his face. John's sure his face is blotchy and red – he knows he was crying under there – but he doesn't care, he turns and scoots closer to Harold, who is waiting for him. 

Harold wraps his arms around John's shoulders and pulls him in close. "There, that was wonderful. Are your arms hurt?" He kneads John's muscles, and John wants to shrug him off and just cling to Harold's legs, but he's learned tonight that Harold knows best for him. 

"Just a few cramps," he says, letting Harold's hands slide up and down his body, checking, stroking, reassuring himself that John is unhurt. "Harold?" he says hoarsely after a few moments. 

"Hm?" says Harold, still on the rolling chair. He tips John's head up, looks into his eyes. John leans into his hands, rubbing his head against Harold's palms like a big dog. 

"Oh," says Harold, delighted. "Come here." He pulls John close, lets him rest his head against his thigh. "You have been wonderful, John. You are so good, so giving." 

John hasn't come yet; his cock is hard and hurting, but it doesn't matter. This is what matters: being close to Harold, knowing Harold is pleased, knowing that they can keep working together, knowing that Harold will always be there and will give him anything he needs. It might not be what he wants, but that's what trust is all about. Harold may send him into danger, and John might fall trying to obey, but Harold will always be there to catch him. Even when he can't see.


End file.
